Never Sit Next to a Naked Man
Listening to:
Thinking of:
-written 23 March-
The step into the train coach opens a realm of stories, in the region it stems mostly from the urban youth, the goddess of speed (Nike) and digital Finnish or Swedish beauties (Nokia and Ericsson).
With the constant murmur of voices emanating from conversations to fellow passengers (usually friends ie. Mates) or to those who are not in our midst (cell phones), I heard a gruff voice with a minute amplitude above the rest. Later did I realize, it came from the guy sitting in front of me, telling me that there’s space for 2 and the table is great. Cest la vie, it’s always great to see someone so enthusiastic about such things.
Maybe it was the cacophony of noises that distracted my senses earlier, but he had big ringed glasses, an old wind breaker (he probably farted as well) and a worn but matching hat and scarf. He was in fact a big man, probably drunk and probably with some form of bi polar disorder.
His attention turned to the book I was reading and in my attempts to ignore him, I couldn’t help it. He looked at the cover, flipped to the back and then into the center. He seemed tantalized with the fact it was vaguely interesting, till the grimace on his face suggested he turned to a gruesome section of the page (don’t ask me, I didn’t read that page, considering burning it). He had large fingers with well trimmed nails though in contrast to the image, with dark grime under them. His hair was orange and curly, his beard was in a mess, and it was clear what he was in society’s eyes, a typical hobo.
Through periodic glances, I came to realize that he was observant about the things around him, from the stations we passed (no kidding) “He didn’t stop at that station! What’s the name of tha’ station?” he slurred. Without an answer, he was left mumbling to himself. He’d comment on the trees and the ditches that we’d past (I lowered the volume of the music just to pay attention, while hiding behind my literary apparatus).
Eventually he turned to his neighbor, a scrawny Indian man about 50, wearing suit and carrying a suitcase. In his hands what seemed to be documents turned out to be some form of religious article. Biggie (as we’ll name the drunken gentleman) asked for it politely, flipped through it and with a loud hmmpphhh… realized it wasn’t written in an alpha numerical format.
As the train stopped, the doors slid open… my rail misadventure ended. The seemingly eventless 20 minutes punctuated by 5 ladies not knowing how to operate a train door (at the stop before), screaming as the door remained shut and calling it faulty, spoilt and abysmal. I couldn’t help but to exit with the same door, only this time I pressed the open button, much to their bewilderment observed to their gaping mouths and dilated pupils. (I’m quite sure these Marks and Spencer totting ladies would not be attracted to a Chinese boy with a bright yellow supermarket bag by his side). Step right back into my room to type this marks the end of a tale, a form of punctuation in my thoroughly eventless life.
Thinking of:
-written 23 March-
The step into the train coach opens a realm of stories, in the region it stems mostly from the urban youth, the goddess of speed (Nike) and digital Finnish or Swedish beauties (Nokia and Ericsson).
With the constant murmur of voices emanating from conversations to fellow passengers (usually friends ie. Mates) or to those who are not in our midst (cell phones), I heard a gruff voice with a minute amplitude above the rest. Later did I realize, it came from the guy sitting in front of me, telling me that there’s space for 2 and the table is great. Cest la vie, it’s always great to see someone so enthusiastic about such things.
Maybe it was the cacophony of noises that distracted my senses earlier, but he had big ringed glasses, an old wind breaker (he probably farted as well) and a worn but matching hat and scarf. He was in fact a big man, probably drunk and probably with some form of bi polar disorder.
His attention turned to the book I was reading and in my attempts to ignore him, I couldn’t help it. He looked at the cover, flipped to the back and then into the center. He seemed tantalized with the fact it was vaguely interesting, till the grimace on his face suggested he turned to a gruesome section of the page (don’t ask me, I didn’t read that page, considering burning it). He had large fingers with well trimmed nails though in contrast to the image, with dark grime under them. His hair was orange and curly, his beard was in a mess, and it was clear what he was in society’s eyes, a typical hobo.
Through periodic glances, I came to realize that he was observant about the things around him, from the stations we passed (no kidding) “He didn’t stop at that station! What’s the name of tha’ station?” he slurred. Without an answer, he was left mumbling to himself. He’d comment on the trees and the ditches that we’d past (I lowered the volume of the music just to pay attention, while hiding behind my literary apparatus).
Eventually he turned to his neighbor, a scrawny Indian man about 50, wearing suit and carrying a suitcase. In his hands what seemed to be documents turned out to be some form of religious article. Biggie (as we’ll name the drunken gentleman) asked for it politely, flipped through it and with a loud hmmpphhh… realized it wasn’t written in an alpha numerical format.
As the train stopped, the doors slid open… my rail misadventure ended. The seemingly eventless 20 minutes punctuated by 5 ladies not knowing how to operate a train door (at the stop before), screaming as the door remained shut and calling it faulty, spoilt and abysmal. I couldn’t help but to exit with the same door, only this time I pressed the open button, much to their bewilderment observed to their gaping mouths and dilated pupils. (I’m quite sure these Marks and Spencer totting ladies would not be attracted to a Chinese boy with a bright yellow supermarket bag by his side). Step right back into my room to type this marks the end of a tale, a form of punctuation in my thoroughly eventless life.
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